


I'm OK, You're OK

by Septembers_coda



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Big Brother Dean, Brotherhood, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, Case Fic, Confrontations, Crazy Castiel, Dean Has Issues, Dean Has Low Self-Esteem, Delirium, Dreams, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fever, Fever Dreams, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Hell Dean, Protective Sam Winchester, Season/Series 07, Self-Esteem Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 20:12:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1239316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Septembers_coda/pseuds/Septembers_coda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an encounter with a powerful Sidhe, Dean suffers a mysterious illness, and Cas brings someone entirely unexpected into the Winchesters’ lives—possibly the only person who could make Dean confront the way he regards himself and his relationship with his brother.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>“Yes, Dean. I wanted a different life. But I never wanted a different brother. You’re the brother I need.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm OK, You're OK

Dean sighed, folding his arms around… Clarissa, her name was. Nice girl, and they’d had a very nice time. He relaxed as completely as he ever did, letting his eyes drift closed as she pushed her sweaty hair off her face and it tickled his shoulder. She ran her hands over his torso lazily, with a frank appreciation that was good for his ego.

It had been a good day—one of Dean’s few truly good days. He and Sam had successfully concluded a case, and no one really got hurt. Dean had been worried because it was fairies again, but this rogue Sidhe, though extremely powerful and magical, was not particularly malevolent. It had caught the Winchesters’ attention by causing some very strange phenomena—an ancient oak forest springing up in the middle of suburbia, for instance, flocks of thousands of hummingbirds appearing in the middle of an elementary school, and flowers growing in strange places, including out of _people_ —but for once no one had died or been seriously injured. The tree roots had done a number on the sewage pipes, so the insurance companies weren’t happy, but Sam and Dean were. Sam had found a spell to send the Sidhe back where it came from, and though they’d been blasted by a wave of… weird music, light and… something Dean could only describe as some kind of girly _emotion_ — it had worked, and they’d both felt completely normal afterward.

And for once Sam was in a celebratory mood, and not unhappy with him. They’d had a good dinner where Sam didn’t give him any crap for his bacon double cheeseburger, then went to the bar with him cheerfully. He’d even been a decent wingman, sending him off with Clarissa and saying he’d see him in the morning—not too early. 

Things had been so easy with Clarissa—just how Dean liked it. Sure, he didn’t mind the chase sometimes. But when a girl came to _him_ , and was all smiles and hands and unsubtle innuendo, and when she took him back to a nice apartment, with a big, comfortable bed and smooth, clean sheets, and she got _creative?_ There was pretty much nothing better.

He stroked her back, enjoying the feel of silky skin. He’d never admit it to Sam, but sometimes he liked the cuddling afterward almost as much as the sex. Especially in a place like this, with a nice, classy girl. He could imagine, for a while, that he had a different sort of life. He hoped she’d let him stay the night.

“That was great,” he ventured, a couple of minutes after their breathing returned to normal. “And, uh… didn’t get much time to appreciate it before, but nice place you got here.”

She laughed. “We had other things to appreciate,” she said, smiling up at him. She looked at him for a moment, seeming to see something in his face. “I’d like it if you’d stay,” she said, snuggling closer and resting her head on his chest.

Dean sighed happily. “Sure,” he said. “Thanks.”

She was running her hands over him again, with increasing interest, he thought. He felt himself waking up a little, his own interest rising. Maybe she’d like to go for round two. He’d started returning her caresses with this in mind when she stopped moving her hands. He jumped a little when she suddenly poked her fingers into his navel.

He laughed, a little uncertainly. “Knock yourself out, sweetheart, but I never had a girl be too interested in that part of me before.”

“Well, it’s a very nice belly button,” she said, stroking the outside of it with her other hand while she continued probing it. Dean squirmed a little. “But I was just noticing you’ve got a lump in there. Is it tender?”

“Uh, no. What, you a doctor or something?” Dean took her hand, trying to make it into a romantic gesture, rather than just yanking it away from the spot. The truth was, she could be feeling a scar from any number of injuries he’d had, and he didn’t want her to ask too many questions.

“Well, I will be, someday. I’m in med school.”

“Really? Good for you,” Dean said uncomfortably.

“It could be an umbilical hernia. Have you ever had abdominal surgery?”

Dean suppressed a sigh. The last thing he wanted was an unplanned doctor’s visit with a girl he was in bed with. “Nah. Look, it’s fine. I’m good. Always been healthy.”

She smiled and looked him up and down with a leer, seeming to take the hint. “Mmm, yes. Healthy,” she said, fondling him.

Dean grinned. Looked like there would be a round two after all.

~* * *~

In the morning, Dean felt oddly hung over. He hadn’t drunk that much, at least not by his standards. Maybe his tolerance wasn’t quite what it used to be. Clarissa was already up; he could hear her puttering in the kitchen, so he slipped into the bathroom for a quick shower.

He found something kind of weird. It was probably nothing, but his belly button was red, and… it oozed a little. He scowled and cursed as he washed it out with soap. It was probably because she’d gotten her fingers all up in there. She was a clean sort of girl, but maybe she’d had something dirty on her hands. He was sure it would be fine, though.

His strangely persistent hangover made it harder to enjoy breakfast with Clarissa. Which was too bad, because she really was a fantastic girl. It was rare for a girl have breakfast with him, and when it did happen, it usually meant she was developing some kind of expectations, though Dean always tried to be clear that he was leaving town soon. Clarissa didn’t have any, though. She just cheerfully asked him when he needed to leave, and said it was good to have an excuse to make a good breakfast so she could study better that day. The food was great, too. The only off note was her encouraging him to get his “hernia” checked out. She said it was a simple surgery and insurance should cover it. Dean tried not to laugh out loud at the idea of having insurance, and just sincerely thanked her for the best night he’d had in a long time. She grinned, waved him off, and encouraged him to call if he was ever back in town.

Maybe he even would.

~* * *~

Sam seemed fresh and shining after a good night’s rest—or, as Dean teased him, a night alone in the hotel with Pay-Per-View. While Dean drove, Sam chatted amiably about where to head next, not having found an obvious case yet, but after a while, he noticed that Dean, increasingly, only responded with occasional monosyllables.

“What’s up with you, Cro-Magnon?” Sam asked.

“Hangover,” Dean grunted.

Sam looked at him quizzically. “Really? I didn’t see you drinking that much. Did you and Clarissa tie one on at her place?”

“Nope. Must be getting old, or maybe I had more at the bar than I thought.”

“You didn’t,” Sam said. He was now peering intensely at Dean, who groaned.

“Oh, c’mon! Is it gonna be Nursemaid Sammy all day today? I’m _fine.”_

“Dude… you’re sweating.”

“Sun’s hot.”

“Dean… it’s like forty degrees out. Take the next exit.”

“SAM.”

“Dean, I’m serious. If you had a hangover, you should start feeling better, not worse. You look way worse than this morning. C’mon, at least pull over so I can drive.”

Dean greeted this suggestion with a lethal look, much as he would always treat such blasphemy, but when Sam persisted, he pulled into a gas station at the next exit. He really wasn’t feeling like himself. “We need gas anyway,” he muttered, and Sam, wisely, said nothing.

He didn’t protest when Sam took the keys and got in the driver’s seat. He couldn’t even make himself protest when Sam drove straight to the nearest hotel, though it was only two PM. And he needed no urging from Sam to collapse on the bed when they’d checked in. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, and in his dreams, he travelled far, far away.

~* * *~

When he woke hours later, Sam was engrossed in his laptop, so Dean, wanting no further fussing, snuck into the shower. He didn’t need another shower yet, but he hoped it would make him feel a little better. He felt like shit—slightly nauseated, gritty-eyed, and exhausted. His head felt swollen to twice its normal size. This had to be the worst hangover ever. Maybe he’d gotten some bad booze. It was hard to believe any ill of Clarissa, or he’d think she’d slipped him a mickey. But then again, that had hardly been necessary. It wasn’t like he was resisting.

He took off his button-down shirt, but gasped when he looked down at the T-shirt he had on under it. There was a dark, wet spot on it, and when he nervously pulled it off, he was alarmed to see pus crusted all around his navel, which was still oozing.

“Damn it, Clarissa,” he muttered, stripping off his jeans, but then, as he hurried into the shower, it occurred to him that maybe she was right about the hernia. Maybe hernias could get infected? He swore softly. After having been torn apart by hellhounds, shot, stabbed, and mauled by monsters of all description, was he really gonna go down to some old-man, regular-Joe medical problem?

He soaped his navel thoroughly, and tried to wash the rest of himself, but within a couple of minutes he was unbearably dizzy. He turned off the water and staggered out of the shower, moving carefully. He tucked a towel around his waist and tried to make it to the bed as the world began to tilt dangerously. The room lengthened until the bed was impossibly far away, and as the floor moved comfortingly toward him, he heard Sam’s voice from a great distance away, calling his name.

~* * *~

“… don’t know. This morning I guess. He said he had a hangover, but he didn’t drink that much,” Sam’s voice was tinny and distant, like an old radio, as Dean swam through mud to try to reach him. “I thought it was the flu or something.”

Dean drifted between this too-bright, white place and memories of the day before… the weird, overgrown forest, the blast of magic as the fairy fought their banishing spell, Clarissa, touching him, whispering in his ear… He tried to focus on Sam’s voice, but someone else was speaking now.

“—ical intervention,” he tuned in. “The sooner, the better.”

“What is it, doctor? Is it serious?”

“We won’t know for sure until we remove it, but the nature of the infection implies that whatever it was, it grew quickly,” said the other voice, and Dean began to be able to tune in better. “The fever and infection are his body’s way of trying to reject the growth, so once it’s gone, he should feel better, and we can run some tests to see…”

The voice faded. So. Not a hernia, then. What were the odds that whatever was wrong with him _wasn’t_ supernaturally caused? He hoped Sam wouldn’t get too sucked in by doctor talk to work that angle. One thing for sure, Dean wasn’t gonna wait around and let some quack do _surgery_ on him. He’d been cut into too many times in his life, by too many evil things, to go in for it voluntarily.

He shook his head, trying to force it to clear as he squinted around the blurriness. He was in one of those curtained areas in an emergency room. He looked down at himself. Damn it. He was naked under the blanket. He squinted around the room, trying to bring it back into focus. He’d attract too much attention if he tried to escape naked. Sam could probably steal him some scrubs… but maybe Sam didn’t want him to escape. And was escaping what one usually did in a hospital? Suddenly Dean felt a surge of panic, remembering Tessa, his father’s death—that was the last time he’d lain in a hospital bed. He sat up suddenly, and almost vomited as the room whirled kaleidoscopically around him.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice was muffled again. Dean heard the curtain pulled back, then Sam was gripping his shoulder. “Hey, hey. It’s OK. Lie back down.”

“Jesus, Sam, you’re not buyin’ this, are you? They want to _cut_ me!” Wait. What the—? He was reacting to the rising panic, and Sam wasn’t helping him, but… should he be freaking out like this?

He was freaking out; there was no doubt about that. Some part of him didn’t understand why. If there was something weird growing on him, cutting it off was only logical, right? But as he thought the words, a surge of terror electrified him He recognized this, recognized that it came from outside himself, but—

“SAM! Don’t let them! Don’t let them take it!” What was he _saying?_ He had scrambled out the bed, on the far side from Sam, staggering into the curtain there. He knocked a wheeling stool halfway across the room as he scrambled to escape, and as Sam leaped forward and grabbed him.

“Dean! What are you talking about? Take _what?_ There’s…” He lowered his voice. “There’s nothing on you. No weapons or fake IDs or anything. I made sure when I brought you in, OK? You were naked, man. You’re clean.” Sam was frowning, staring at him, _into_ him in that inescapable way he had. He seemed to know, by the time he was done speaking, that Dean wasn’t worried about weapons or fake IDs. “Dean. What is it?”

“I… I dunno… a spell. It feels like… the fear thing, the Ghost Sickness, but… only about them cutting the thing out. Sam… something happened. I… I don’t like to think it was Clarissa, but—” 

“I’ll talk to her,” Sam said darkly, but Dean shook his head.

“No. Don’t… scare her.” Dean forced himself to sit down on the edge of the bed; Sam didn’t let go of his arm. “Look, I know I don’t have the best instincts with women, but I just can’t believe it’s her. If she wanted to hurt me, she had plenty of opportunity. Maybe you could just watch her, make sure she’s normal. She says she’s a med student; you could check into that. And look for signs of anyone else displaying these symptoms.”

“OK,” Sam said uncertainly. “I will. But Dean…” Dean groaned and covered his face; Sam frowned but kept talking. “Are you sure it’s something supernatural? Maybe it’s just—”

“What about you?” Dean interrupted sharply. “You feeling OK since the fairy thing?”

A nurse walked by the curtain just then and gave them the side-eye. Dean couldn’t tell if she was frowning or trying not to smirk. He suppressed the urge to shout at her while Sam waited for her to pass before answering.

“I feel fine, Dean. I didn’t feel anything when it happened, and I’ve been perfectly fine since.”

“You felt _nothing_ when it happened? Like… nothing?” Dean couldn’t bring himself to talk about the music, or especially the _feeling._

“Nothing at all. I mean, the light was a little bright; I saw spots for a minute. Why? What did you feel? You said you were fine.”

“I was. Nothing.”

Sam looked at him, that familiar wrinkled W appearing between his brows. “Right. When you say ‘nothing’ like that, I always believe you.”

But Dean couldn’t pay attention. He was wrestling with his fear, trying to reason with it, but it was rising inexorably, choking him. “Sam,” he said, hating the pleading tone in his voice, trying to cover it with anger. “Sam, don’t… you gotta get me outta here, c’mon…”

Sam frowned. “Dean, if we leave, you could die. Your fever got so high they had to put you in an ice bath when you got here. The doc says it will go right back up when the drugs wear off, if they don’t get in there and cut that thing—”

“NO!” Dean shouted hysterically. He couldn’t control his own actions anymore. He shoved Sam away and leapt up, covering his belly button with one hand, the other raised between him and Sam. Sam made a grab for him, but Dean took off, shoving through the curtain and out into the hallway at full speed—stark naked.

“DEAN!” Sam was after him, of course. Dean’s mind was reduced to his most basic instincts. He was being hunted, and he had to escape. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered the fact of his nudity, and that this might be a problem, but it mattered not at all in the face of protecting—weirdly, the first thing he thought was “protecting Sam.” That didn’t make sense; it was Sam who was chasing him! Force of habit. He had to protect… he wasn’t sure. Himself, he guessed.

Shouts and gasps followed him; a general alarm seemed to go off. He could hear Sam’s voice among the shouts, and he focused on getting as far away as possible. If anyone in this hospital could capture him, defeat him, it was Sam. He passed a bank of elevators and frantically looked for the stairs that should be near. 

He turned sharply and dashed himself right against a mountain dressed in scrubs.

“Whoa, buddy,” said the enormous black man, gripping Dean’s shoulders firmly. “Easy now. You wanna check out against medical advice? You’re gonna need some clothes first, don’t you think?”

“I can’t… I don’t want…”

“Nobody here can do anything you don’t want,” said the man calmly. Just then, Sam ran up.

“Dean, c’mon,” he said placatingly. “You’re sick. I don’t know what to do to fix it, but these guys do—”

“He says I can check out against medical advice,” Dean blurted. “I’m going. Where are my clothes, Sam?”

“Dean—”

Dean couldn’t _believe_ it. Sam was betraying him! Sam was going to let them hurt—him. He stared into Sam’s face, into the puppy-dog eyes of pleading concern—and gave the man holding his shoulders a sharp elbow to the ribs, ducking under his massive arms and making a break for it. He sprinted down the hallway… or he thought he had. Instead, his legs seemed to be melting. His jab hadn’t broken the man’s hold, and the man was now cradling him effortlessly; Sam lifted his legs and they were carrying him.

“Son,” the man was saying. “You’re going to have to give consent for your brother; he’s in no state to make medical decisions for himself. I’ve got to get him into the OR _now_. He’s deteriorating…”

Dean didn’t want to hear the rest, didn’t want to hear Sam give consent for them to murder him. As consciousness slipped away, he gave a last desperate plea. There was one person who could still save him.

_Cas,_ he managed to think, trying to wave away the fog that swirled around his mental voice, _Cas, if you can hear me, please…_

~* * *~

Dean was building a tree house. They’d never stayed anywhere long enough for him to finish one, and usually Dad wouldn’t even let him start. But this time, he had good lumber, nails, a hammer, and a great tree to build it in, a spreading, majestic Midwestern oak that looked like it was created just for his perfect tree home. He sat on a broad branch, nailing down boards for his platform.

Man, he loved this tree. He couldn’t ever remember caring about trees, but this one was the best. At 10, he could climb well enough, and he was big enough to reach far enough, and he finally had the skill to build what he wanted. Dad wouldn’t say he couldn’t this time.

Sam stood silent at the foot of his tree. Dean noticed him suddenly. He had thought about asking Sam to help him, but he’d thought he was too little. Now, though, he seemed the same age as Dean, big and strong, and totally ready to help. Sam easily climbed to the platform, sat on a branch across from Dean, and started handing him nails when he needed them, straightening the boards and holding them in place while Dean wielded the hammer. He did everything Dean wanted him to do, exactly as he would have done it himself if he’d had an extra set of hands. Dean did wonder briefly when Sam had become the same age and size as him, and why, though he kept up a stream of steady talk, Sam never said a word.

Sam wasn’t ignoring him. He was listening. He always listened. He was always there, even when Dean was alone. Even when Dean was far away from everything, lost where no one could find him. Even in Hell, he had been there…

Suddenly Dean couldn’t remember where the tree branch he’d been sitting on was—all he could remember was gravity, and the hardness of the ground, and the panicked emptiness of the air as there was nothing holding him up. He started to scream as he fell, but Sam grabbed the back of his jacket tight in both hands. He pulled him back from the void, into solidity. Into himself.

~* * *~

Dean woke with a strangled gasp. He clutched wildly at the strands of dream, scrambling for a foothold in reality, to hear and see and feel. He was aware that Sam was there, as he had been when Dean left, and while he was away, and now that he was back.

“Dean?” Sam said, quietly, as if afraid to wake him. Dean realized his eyes were still closed, and he blinked them open.

“Hey,” said Sam, and Dean didn’t know why, but the uncertainty in his brother’s voice hurt, a pain like holding something icy cold for too long in numbed hands.

“Hey,” he croaked automatically. “You all right?”

Sam gave his little exhaled non-laugh. “Why’re you asking me? You’re the one who had surgery. How do _you_ feel?”

Dean considered the question. How he’d felt before came back to him in a rush of memory; he started to say “shitty,” but realized it wasn’t true now. He felt…

“Uh, fine,” he said. “Sort of… weirdly fine. You sure I had surgery?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t too major. You were out from the anesthesia for a couple of hours, but the surgery only took about 20 minutes. The incision is small, and clean. I checked it over.” Sam was eyeing him. “How do you feel… otherwise?”

“You mean am I done freaking out?” Dean’s memory was returning. All that had happened since he’d woken up with Clarissa seemed far away, like something that had happened to somebody else.

“What do you remember?” Sam asked carefully.

“I remember I really, really didn’t want them to cut me. I thought they were gonna kill me.”

“That’s what’s weird,” Sam said. “You didn’t. You weren’t worried about yourself. You were worried about someone else. You kept saying, “Don’t hurt him.”

“I did?”

“Yeah, until they got you sedated. Then I tried to tell you you were gonna be OK, and you grabbed me and said, ‘Sammy, thank God. You have to get away! Don’t let them hurt you!’”

“I remember that. Well, not that—but that I thought it was… you they were after. I guess. It’s all foggy now.” He looked at Sam a little more closely. “Well? Did you find out anything?”

“Nothing definite. Clarissa checks out. Couldn’t find anything strange about her at all—except she really likes _you._ ” Sam smirked at him. “As for the fairy stuff, not sure if it’s anything. But I have one idea, and it depends on what the doctors find out on the pathology report.”

“Don’t really like the sound of that,” Dean grunted.

“If my theory is right, you’re completely fine. In fact, you might be… better than you were before.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean wasn’t sure why, but this conversation was making him really uncomfortable.

Sam was about to answer, then stopped, throwing Dean a warning look. A nurse came in then, smiling at Dean.

“Feel better?” she asked, twitching aside his blanket and hospital gown without a by-your-leave and examining the stitches. Dean scowled but allowed it. “These look great! Very clean. Your temperature’s been normal for several hours, so there’s no reason you can’t go home after you talk to the pathologist. He’s got the report on the growth Dr. Michelson removed, and he wants to talk to you about it in person!” 

She beamed at Dean as if conferring a great favor, and expecting Dean’s excited gratitude. Dean dredged up a smile. “Great,” he said. “Uh, if he could come now, that’d be great. I’d like to get out of here sooner than later.”

“I’ll go tell him,” said the nurse cheerfully, and left.

As soon as she was gone, Sam said, “By the way, did you pray to Cas before you went under?”

“Don’t remember—maybe,” answered Dean uncomfortably. He didn’t like thinking about how afraid he’d been, and what he might have said to Cas if he did pray. “Why?”

“He showed up a few minutes after they brought you out of the OR,” Sam said. “It was a little weird. He took one look at you from across the room, and said ‘He’s fine. There is someone else here who needs me more,’ and disappeared. Haven’t seen him since.”

Dean felt a little wounded, but decided to overlook it. “Well, I _am_ fine—you’ve stitched me up from worse wounds than this, and we went on hunts that same day,” Dean said, fingering the row of stitches that ran from the edge of his navel down inside it. “What do ya say we ditch the doc, get out of here now? Hospitals give me the heebie jeebies.”

“I… think it would be a good idea to hear the path report,” Sam said uncomfortably. “We still need to make sure…”

“Sure of what?” Dean asked sharply.

“Well, sure that it’s nothing malignant. The surgeon said—”

Dean flinched. “Was it that linebacker guy?” he broke in, leaping on the chance to change the subject. “I thought he was a corpsman—the way he just took me out.” He looked up at Sam with a forced grin. “Dude—did The Refrigerator just do surgery on me?”

Sam chuckled. “Yeah. I asked around about that when I was checking into his background, making sure he was competent. Actually he’s the best surgeon in this hospital, and probably the state. He did play football in college, and apparently NFL recruiters were swarming him from the time he was a sophomore. But he told them all ‘no thanks, I’m going to medical school.’”

“Well, good for him,” Dean said grumpily. He was fingering the stitches, and their neat, professional perfection just irritated him more.

“Mr. Hodgson?” Dean didn’t know how a voice could be so nerdy, but it was. The guy attached to it matched it well—scrawny, with narrow hunched shoulders, oversized glasses, and thinning hair that made him look older than he probably was—except that he was confident. He strode into the room once Sam acknowledged him, his face shining with near-religious fervor.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, sitting down on a stool next to Dean’s bed. Doctors always sat on those rolling stools, Dean thought, no matter what other seating was available.

“I feel fine,” Dean said, trying to suppress his grumpiness. 

“Good! I’m Dr. Novotny. I’m the pathologist. I hope it’s all right, I wanted to speak to you… they don’t usually let us talk to people,” he joked feebly. Dean just stared at him.

“What can you tell us about the tumor, doctor?” Sam said diplomatically.

“Well, it wasn’t a tumor, actually. It’s a condition called ‘fetus in fetu’.”

“Uh… excuse me, doc. Did you say ‘fetus?’” Dean said, forcing himself to follow Sam’s polite example.

“Well, yes. You may have heard of this happening. It’s popularly called absorbing your twin. Your case is very unusual, but… well, basically we removed a mass from your abdominal wall that contained a fetus.”

_“What?!”_

“Yes. Your mother, when she was first pregnant with you, was pregnant with twins. Your body absorbed that fetus as you grew strong and it… didn’t. As far as it goes, that’s not that uncommon; it’s just usually gone, absorbed, long before medical science would be able to detect the presence of twins, anyway. 

“But—well…” Unaccountably, the doctor looked nervous. “If you’re willing, we’d really like to study the—growth. This is a teaching hospital. As I said, there are a few unusual—well, extremely unusual—things about your case. For one, the infection, which has completely disappeared, and which we still can’t exactly explain. And the fetus itself. For it to have been there for over thirty years, and you didn’t feel anything… It’s larger than any we’ve seen, and strangely well-developed. Teeth, hair, a spinal column—even fingernails—”

“DOC. Hold up. Are you saying you just took A BABY out of me? Is it dead?”

The doctor stared at him for a long moment, so flummoxed he looked completely blank. “Well… Mr. Hodgson… of course it’s… it was never alive,” he said in a strangely gentle, careful tone. 

_So you say,_ thought Dean. _But this is my life we’re talking about._

“I’m sure my brother’s still a little tired,” Sam said, giving Dean a sidelong, significant look. Dean correctly interpreted it as ‘act sick,’ so he lay back sullenly, turning away. “This is a lot to absorb,” Sam continued. “Can we get back to you about the study?”

“Of course,” said Dr. Novotny. Dean could feel him shift guiltily on the stool. “I apologize if I was overeager. Your health is most important, of course.” He said this as if it were something he heard repeated often, rather than something he believed. “I’ll visit again in the morning, if that’s all right.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Sam said.

As soon as the door closed behind the doctor, Dean rolled over and sat up. “So?” he demanded. “You know something; what is it?”

“I think this confirms my theory,” Sam answered.

“Which is?”

“The Sidhe hit you with a spell. But not a destructive one,” Sam said, coming around the bed to sit closer to Dean, and Dean noticed, between him and the door. “It was a spell designed to make you immortal. So you could be her consort. But we blocked almost all of it; we sent her back to Faerie before the spell could take hold.”

“Consort! _Almost_ all?” Dean said. “How much, and what the hell else is gonna happen to me?”

“As far as I can tell, nothing. I think most of the spell was absorbed by the remnant of your twin, and made it grow into more of a full fetus. There were other… effects, but nothing bad.”

“What effects? Damn it, Sam, you’d better tell me—”

“I _am_ telling you, Dean, chill out,” said Sam. “The effects are all… good, actually. Um, there’s something I want to check. Can you stand up?”

Dean gave him a dirty look at the ‘can you,’ and slid out of bed. He did so cautiously, expecting fatigue or even dizziness, but weirdly, it felt more like hopping out of bed on one of the lazy mornings he’d almost never had, refreshed after a great night’s sleep.

He held out his arms. “Well, Dr. Sammy?” he said sarcastically. “What are you looking for?”

Dean was extremely uncomfortable at the look of wonder that came over Sam’s face. “I was right,” Sam murmured. “Check this out, Dean. Stand up straight.” He stepped close to him, so they were toe to toe.

Obligingly, Dean straightened up. He peered quizzically into Sam’s face. Something felt off, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

“You’re barely shorter than me,” Sam said. “And you’re barefoot. Do you see it?”

He did. He was looking almost directly into Sam’s eyes now, without having to tilt his head up slightly to do so, as he used to. He looked down at himself anxiously, feeling his arms and torso. Everything felt the same, but…

“Look at your legs,” Sam said.

Dean did. They were bare under the hospital gown, so he could see them clearly. It took him a long moment of staring to see that something was definitely different.

The slight bowing of his legs was gone. Dean had hardly ever noticed it; it had always just been part of him, an anomaly that was, his dad had assured him in adolescence, nothing to worry about. But the outward curve was gone, and as a result, his legs seemed longer, and he definitely stood taller.

Sam was grinning at him. “I’d say you’re a good 6’3 now. Maybe even over that,” he said with satisfaction.

Dean felt a brief flush of pleasure at this—he would never in a million years admit it, but he’d always felt a bit resentful that his little brother was so much taller than him—but a flutter of panic quickly replaced the pleasure. “If it changed that about me, what else—”

“Other little things, but I really think it’s OK, Dean,” Sam said reassuringly. “I think Cas would have seen it if anything was really weird. I think it’s a good thing, actually, and that’s why he said you were fine.”

“What other little things?” Dean said impatiently.

“Well, like when you came back from Hell—your scars are gone.”

Dean automatically glanced down at his right forearm, where he’d had a long, thick scar from a knife fight. Indeed, it was gone.

“Also, you look… younger.”

“What?” Dean hurried for the bathroom and a mirror.

It was true. The difference was subtle, but he looked more like he had when he’d come to get Sam at Stanford than anything. There was a softness to his face that hadn’t been there in years, and the fine lines around his eyes were gone.

He stepped out of the bathroom to stare at Sam in bewildered wonder. Could it be that something supernatural had had a solely _good_ effect for once? His experience made him too suspicious to be sure, but…

“Mr. Hodgson!” The pathologist’s voice was so panicked that Dean leaped around to face him, reaching for weapons that weren’t there. Sam was instantly between him and the doctor.

Dr. Novotny blinked at this extreme reaction, but was so visibly upset it barely registered. “Mr. Hodgson!” he repeated. “I just went to the lab to look at your specimen, and it’s gone! Gone—someone stole it!” He looked near tears.

For some reason, Dean’s heart really went out to the little guy. All he wanted was to investigate his bizarre medical phenomena in peace—he certainly wasn’t prepared for someone like Dean to bust open his happy life. “Don’t worry, doc,” said Dean, clapping the guy on the shoulder. The doctor staggered; Dean must have clapped him a bit too hard. He withdrew his hand and cleared his throat. “My brother tell you we’re private investigators? We can find this thief.”

“It’s probably another doctor who wants to steal my findings,” said Novotny morosely. Damn, he looked short next to Dean. This must be what Sam felt like all the time.

“Well, nobody’s studying my baby but you,” Dean joked, patting him again, more gently this time. He wondered where all this generosity came from as the doctor’s face lit up, but it was true: they couldn’t leave the specimen in the hands of just anyone, so if the doctor thought they were recovering it so he could study it, let him have that. In Dean’s experience, there was never a simple, relatively innocent explanation like stealing research. Something bad was going to happen if he and Sam didn’t get that specimen back immediately.

“Thank you, Mr. Hodgson,” said the doctor tremulously. He took off his glasses and wiped the corners of his eyes, then seemed to notice, for the first time, that Dean was standing there in his hospital gown. “Er… are you sure you should be out of bed? Perhaps your brother can handle the investigation.”

Sam was already moving toward the door. “I’m on it,” he said darkly, eying Dean significantly as he left the room.

Well, damn. Trust Sam to ditch him, half-naked with a weepy pathologist, while he went to solve the crime. Dean got rid of Novotny as quickly as he could, then searched the room for something to wear. Sam had brought his duffle. Dean was just pulling a T-shirt over his head when he jumped violently at a familiar voice right next to his ear.

“Dean. There is someone I would like you to meet.”

~* * *~

Dean scowled at Cas. The person he apparently wanted Dean to meet skulked behind him, out of sight in the doorway. Dean knew he should be more polite to the angel—after all, he was crazy now because of him and Sam—but Cas freaked him out these days. He tried to think of what to say as Cas looked at him, calmly waiting for a response.

Meanwhile, Sam was looking for a baby that had been cut out of Dean a few hours before, after telling him a fairy had tried to make him her bitch and showing him he’d grown over two inches and was, what, six or seven years younger? He’d had weirder days, but not many.

Dean sighed. “Um, OK, who is it?” he said.

Just then, he heard running footsteps, and Sam burst into the room. His face told Dean nothing except that he was seriously freaked out. Sam was staring at the stranger—not like he’d seen a ghost, because that wouldn’t freak him out a tenth as much. Like a non-Winchester who’d seen a ghost. Cas glanced at Sam, then ushered the stranger forward where Dean could see him.

Dean was instantly sorry he’d looked. The feeling that washed over him was indescribable. It was vertigo so severe that he sagged back onto the bed, almost falling. It was like déjà vu, but much more intense. It was like dreams Dean had had, nightmares really, about looking in the mirror and seeing a stranger there, or meeting someone he should remember but didn’t. Only he did. He…

“Dean,” said Cas. “This is your brother, August. I grew him for you.” He gave Dean a sweet, hopeful smile, as if he were presenting him with the best gift ever.

Dean scrambled to his feet, reaching for a weapon, but he had none with him. His mind was blankly panicked; he understood nothing. “Jesus, Cas. Jesus, what are you saying? You—who are you?” He directed this last at the stranger.

The man cocked his head, and Dean felt another dizzying, nauseating surge of… something. “You know who I am,” the man said, in a confused voice, and when he spoke, Dean felt an intense pressure inside his head and had to sit back down on the bed.

“Dean,” said Sam. “Are you all right?” He cast a suspicious look at Cas and “August” as he skirted around them warily to stand next to Dean, hovering protectively.

Dean couldn’t answer. He struggled to sort out what was going on, and failed. He pushed aside confusing emotions and tried to force his mind to logic, to observation.

August didn’t look much like him, except for a couple of things. Same unusual eye color, same lips. He looked more like Sam, actually—similar build and face shape, but blonde. Lighter blonde than Dean’s dishwater color, more like their mother’s.

It was like August said. He _knew_ this was his brother. His confusion came from the fact that, though August didn’t really look like him, it was like he _was_ him. Like looking in a mirror and seeing what had always been inside his mind made flesh.

Dean realized, as he looked at August, that this presence was actually what he’d always thought of as Sam. His brother, whom he needed more than he needed himself. Because it _was_ himself.

He felt as if gravity had stopped working right, and nothing was anchoring him to the ground. He shook himself and stared at Cas, trying to form a question out of the nebulous cloud of inexplicability that filled his whole world. He tried to cast off these bizarre thoughts, wondering if this was the real effect of the fairy spell, or if he was going crazy.

Sam finally spoke for him. “Dean,” he said. “I know that guy isn’t you—he doesn’t even look like you, but… it _feels_ like you. Whenever I look away, I feel like I see you out of the corner of my eye—both here and there.” He gestured at August. 

“Cas,” Sam continued, when Dean could think of no response, “You… you stole the fetus that was taken out of Dean and—grew him? August?” Sam eyed the latter suspiciously as he finished his question.

“Yes,” said Cas. “He called to me when they were trying to kill him. Prayed to me, so I answered.”

There was a long, heavy silence, which Cas finally broke with an exasperated sigh. “I thought you would be pleased,” Cas said. “You’re always going on and on about family, and being brothers, and now you have another one.”

“That didn’t work out so well for Adam,” said Sam.

“No,” said August, “it didn’t.” Dean stared at him again, and though August’s return gaze felt very— _familiar,_ was the only word he could think of—it wasn’t, when it came down to it, all that friendly. And neither was the bite in his voice. He recognized _that_ quality—he usually only heard it inside himself.

“How do you know?” said Sam, and Dean thought there was something missing from his voice. After a moment, he realized it was the politeness Sam usually used on strangers. The voice he used now—slightly sarcastic and bitter, but still warmer than his other voice—was usually reserved for Dean himself.

“How do I _know_?” said August, and Dean felt dizzy again. “How could I _forget_? That’s what happens to Dean’s brother—when it’s not _you._ ”

“Well,” said Cas, in that oddly cheerful, borderline crazy tone he had these days. “I’ll let you three catch up. I wouldn’t want to interfere in the ‘family business.’” He made air quotes around the final words. “Besides, I suppose I’d better do something about the angel that’s stalking August right now. Perhaps I can distract him with old tales of Heavenly battles. No! I know. I can tell him what I’ve learned about ocean currents, and krill.”

“Wait—Cas!” Dean sputtered. “What—” But Cas was gone.

Dean looked at August uncomfortably. For the first time, August looked uncomfortable, too; he was staring at the corner where Cas had been with a troubled expression. And Sam? Dean wasn’t sure how _he_ looked. He only knew that if he were in the car or in a motel room with Sam right now, he’d be doing his best not to annoy him.

“What did Cas mean, the angel who’s stalking you?” said Sam.

“Must just be the latest one,” said August, and Sam and Dean both flinched instinctively back as he reached inside his jacket. He drew an angel blade from it, then gave Sam and Dean a sarcastic look in response to their flinching.

“Where’d you get that?” said Dean sharply.

“From Cas. He said I might need it, if those feathery bastards keep coming. Not that I can use it worth a shit,” he said bitterly, shifting his grip on it, and watching Dean out of the corner of his eye, seeming very conscious of his reaction. “Guess some things you can’t learn by listening.”

“You don’t talk like a guy who was born a few hours ago,” observed Sam. He was looking at August with great suspicion.

“I wasn’t. Well, I wasn’t born at all, exactly... but I’ve been around a lot longer than that.”

“Could you maybe explain to me what the hell’s going on?” said Dean. He had sat down on the bed again and was holding his head, which throbbed.

“You know, but I’ll explain it anyway,” said August. “I was in there that whole time, semi-aware. I remember things like getting ripped up by the Hellhounds—their claws got me, too—and learning that Sam was our greatest responsibility.” He kept looking at Sam as if irresistibly drawn, studying his face intently. Sam shifted uncomfortably whenever he did it. 

“I was having trouble sorting out what happened when, and with things like talking and physical skills. Because even though I knew English, and everything you learned I learned, I had never walked, or been able to see anything before, really.”

“What do you mean, _really_? How could you see anything at all from inside my…” He couldn’t bring himself to say ‘belly button.’

August smirked, and to his surprise, Sam joined him. Dean felt a too-familiar flare of temper, which he suppressed to focus on August’s answer.

“Well, I’m still not totally clear on it. But I could hear your mind, sort of. It was more like I could hear your soul; that’s how Cas put it. So even though I’d never used my eyes before, there were certain things I could see, really vivid things, through your mind. Like Mom’s face, when you used to try to make sure you could remember her. Or Sam’s… like how you could tell, when Lucifer was about to kill us, when Sam came back. When it was him behind his eyes again.”

Dean looked at him sharply. No one knew about that. Sam didn’t know. He barely even let himself know, but that image, the spark of Sam coming back into his eyes as Dean tried desperately to make him remember, to make him know that Dean… he winced away from the words “loved him.” He always had, and somehow, seeing August made him wonder why.

Dean looked at Sam. He felt he couldn’t trust himself now, couldn’t figure out what to do, but Sam could. As usual, Sam didn’t let him down.

“Well, we’ll have to figure this out,” Sam said calmly. “We’ll get somewhere safe and put up angel-proofing—though that means Cas won’t be able to find us either,” he mused. “Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Let’s go.”

They snuck out of the hospital in the usual Winchester fashion. Dean thought, as they went out through a basement laundry room, that it probably hadn’t occurred to either him or Sam to just check out and leave through the front door like normal people. Of course, they had reason to be circumspect. They always did.

Dean was still having trouble dealing with August, so he just sat back and let Sam ask the questions. August kept staring at Sam with what Dean finally recognized as a sort of… idol-worship. It seemed to freak Sam out; Dean could see him trying to ignore it, but Sam couldn’t suppress his own curiosity about August. The two of them seemed to almost forget about Dean.

August explained how he’d come to full consciousness while Cas was growing him into an adult human. There had been the spark of life left in him, even when he’d been cut from Dean’s body, because of the fairy magic. Cas had made use of the magic, just sort of expanded it with his angelic power, until August was fully formed.

He’d been terrified at first, overwhelmed with sight and unfiltered sound, and unable to talk, until Cas went into his mind. “It wasn’t like he taught me stuff, exactly,” August said. “It was more like he just… showed me the connections. Helped me remember. After all, I’d been listening to you and Sam and everyone you ever talked to, your whole life. I was there when you learned to walk, and talk, and hunt. I’d learned it all, I just needed to connect it to… the parts of my brain that control my body, and things like language, and stuff. I really only understood emotion before.”

Interestingly, he looked at Sam when he said the last part, and more interestingly, Sam flushed under his regard. Dean felt like he understood the look August gave Sam down to the roots of his being, down to what he’d been before he knew anything about what he was. 

The whole thing was damned uncomfortable, so he changed the subject. “Why August?” Dean grunted, as they set up in their latest squat and Sam began to paint the walls with sigils.

They both glanced at him, almost startled. It was the first time he’d spoken since they left the hospital.

“What do you mean?” said August gently, and Dean felt a flare of dislike for that gentleness, that kindness. He liked it well enough when it was directed toward Sam…

“Why is that your name?”

“Oh. Cas gave it to me. When he asked me my name, at first I thought it was Sam. It was before he’d showed me some things, before I was fully aware. He explained that you already had a brother named Sam, which was why I thought it was my name, actually. I was confused about… who I was outside the two of you. Then I thought my name might be Adam, but… Cas didn’t think that was a good idea either. Then he suggested August, because today is August first, when I was… when I came into the world.” He shrugged. “It works, I guess.” 

He sounded so much like Dean when he said that, and looked so much like Sam, with that unmistakable movement of big, broad shoulders, that Dean felt dizzy again. He sighed. Then, as he so often did, Sam voiced his thoughts for him.

“What are we gonna do with you?”

~* * *~

Cas found them despite the angelic sigils. He explained that the residue of his own power in August was enough to guide him to them, and that this should last some weeks.

“I used a lot of power on him,” Cas sighed. He and Dean were talking in the squat’s bedroom. Dean had erased the sigils from there so Cas could come in through the window, but he couldn’t go into the main room, where August was now getting a fighting lesson that he’d requested from Sam. Dean could still barely look at the guy.

“Dean,” Cas said seriously, and Dean looked at him. The angel had that tormented look he usually had these days, the one Dean couldn’t bring himself to reassure away completely. 

“I saved one brother for you, and made you another one,” Cas said. “I wanted that to be enough. But I realize it isn’t. I am not sure if I have enough, Dean.”

“Cas, no. We’re…” Dean was about to say, ‘we’re square.’ But what he wanted to say was ‘we’re family.’ He just wasn’t sure what that meant anymore.

“I will do what I can for you, Dean,” Cas continued. “For you and Sam. But my time is not always my own. I am called by things like bees, and the migratory patterns of swallows, and curling.”

He paused as though expecting an answer, so Dean said, uncomfortably, “I know, Cas. It’s OK.”

“I must tell you some things before I am lost again. I did not know this would happen, and I’m sorry. Again. Sorry.” 

Cas began studying the floorboards intently, and Dean instinctively felt he would lose him soon, so he said, sharply, “What, Cas? What did you not know would happen?” 

Cas looked up, and tilted his head wonderingly at whatever he saw on Dean’s face. “You love him already,” he said, and he sounded like he had moments after Dean had first met him, when he’d said, You do not think that you deserve to be saved. 

“Don’t even know if I like the guy, but that’s beside the point,” said Dean gruffly. “He’s family, and we’re responsible for him. We can’t let him down.” The shadow of Adam, of his father, of everyone all the way back to his mother, seemed to chill the room as he said the words. He continued quickly, before he lost Cas again. “So, what is it? What are you worried about, about August?”

“He will be harried, pursued, unto death maybe. By angels, but not just by them. The fairy power in him—it is dazzlingly bright. No supernatural creature could fail to see it, and many will covet it. August would be an ideal vessel. He is physically perfect, and quite likely unaging, even immortal. The power in him could be harvested by one who knew how. August himself can’t use it—it is what is animating him, making him a living… human, more or less.”

Dean didn’t like that ‘more or less,’ but he didn’t question it. “You mean if someone took it out, took that power, he’d die?”

“Not exactly. To die, one must be born, and August never was. Without the power, he simply wouldn’t exist on this plane. He would be gone, and his body would return to dust.”

“But he was alive. He didn’t get born, but he was… there, all this time. His soul was. Right? Cas? He has a soul, right?”

“Oh, yes. He has a soul. He just… doesn’t have a thread on the loom,” Cas said, drifting further into that dreamy state again. 

Dean cursed inwardly, knowing he had to hurry. “What do we need to do, Cas? What can we do to keep the monsters off of him?”

“I cannot answer that,” said Cas, sticking his head out the window suddenly, as if it were of utmost importance right that second that he see outside. He stared up at the clouds as he spoke. “To know that, you must ask she who started this.”

“She? You mean the Sidhe?” Dean cursed at his own confusing phrasing; he knew he had to be extremely plain and clear with Cas to get any answers, and it was iffy even then. “The fairy? Cas?”

Cas looked back at Dean from where he leaned out the window, and his eyes were luminous in the sunlight. “There are so many oak trees,” Cas said with awe-struck reverence, and Dean knew he was losing him.

“Cas? The fairy? What do we need to do?”

But with a flutter of wings, Cas was gone.

~* * *~

Over the next few days, Dean tried to adjust to August’s presence while August took fighting lessons from Sam. August was awkward at first, but learned incredibly quickly. He only needed physical practice; it continually freaked Dean out how much he knew about hunting, and about their past. Especially since he remembered things Dean didn’t. He remembered Dean’s life far better than Dean himself did.

Sam seemed to be trying to keep August at arm’s length, but they took to each other weirdly well. August’s affection for Sam was plain, and after he got past his discomfort with it, Sam soaked it up in a way that gave Dean a strange, cold feeling in his gut—like guilt, but Dean didn’t understand what it was about. There was a lot more laughter and a lot less arguing than Dean could ever remember having with Sam, at least since Sam had left for Stanford. 

After a while, Dean wondered if they would notice if he wasn’t there. Or even if they would be better off.

Cas’s warnings were confirmed when they left their squat. They had too much going on to stay hunkered down, so they changed squats several times, covering each with every protective sigil they could think of. But whenever they ventured out in the world, things found them. August took down his first angel with the blade Cas had given him. He assured them that he’d never say yes, but the angels seemed ready to kidnap and ‘persuade’ him, and they were drawn to him like moths to a flame. Demons were little better—they’d gotten August an anti-possession tattoo at the first opportunity—and there had also been a witch and two creatures they hadn’t been able to identify.

Sam approached Dean when it had been about a week. “Listen, Dean. I’ve been doing some research, and I think I have an idea how we can solve August’s problem.”

~* * *~

Sam explained. And it was a crazy plan, but no crazier than half of what they did every day. If it didn’t work, they’d (hopefully) be no worse off. If it did, they’d no longer be carting around a giant neon sign that screamed ALL MONSTERS WELCOME all the time.

And… they’d have a new brother.

Dean was unaccustomed to thinking very hard about things, except when he had to. Problems in the world that he could solve, sure. Things inside himself… not so much. A shot of whiskey worked as well as anything to quell those thoughts. But now… what had been inside him his whole life was now outside of him, thinking and talking and walking around in broad daylight.

And looking at him, sometimes with pity, sometimes with a sort of cool resentment.

What had been taken out of him with August? He felt the same, mostly. Except, when he was honest with himself, jealous, and a little lonely. Sam hadn’t seemed to notice that Dean didn’t talk to them much. All his attention was spent on August, who treated _Sam_ with that big-brother idolization Sam had always given to Dean. Sam had never had that, and he was clearly enjoying it now. August asked him questions about everything from hunting techniques to his time at Stanford, from how to clean salt out of the barrel of a shotgun to how to meet women—something August was keenly interested in. It was the only question he’d asked that Sam had declined to answer.

“I’ve never been that great at that,” he’d said. “Ask Dean.” 

But August hadn’t. At first, he’d asked Dean a few questions, mostly hinting around the matter of whether Dean had ever suspected August was there, in his belly. If he had ever heard August trying to talk to him, trying, at times, to help him. Dean had tersely replied in the negative, but the more he’d thought about it, the more he felt that this had been a lie.

He could _feel_ when August was near. He knew what he was feeling, as keenly as if he were feeling it himself. He knew that August _did_ want to talk to him, and wanted his approval as much as he wanted Sam’s. He stayed away because Dean wanted him to.

Uncomfortably, after days of thinking and trying not to think around this topic, Dean finally had to come to the conclusion that accepting August would be too much like accepting himself, and he had never been able to do that.

August knew everything. He knew all of Dean’s secrets, his shame and guilt, his horror at the evil inside him, the evil that had coated him when he’d been in Hell, when he’d taken up the torturer’s blade and systematically destroyed his original self. He knew how close Dean had come to killing Sam, more than once. He knew how much this tormented him. And he knew Dean’s cowardice, knew every time Dean had sunk inside a bottle instead of facing his fears.

He knew that without Sam, Dean was nothing. The one time he had tried to be something else, with Lisa, he had failed. So badly she had been drawn into the evil, nearly killed by it. The best thing he had ever been able to do for her was erase himself from her life completely. It was perhaps the best and purest thing he had ever done, period. 

He had not even been able to do it himself—he had needed Cas’s help—and he still regretted it, grievously and bitterly, every day.

He had reassured himself for years now that he existed, _should_ exist, because Sam needed him. Sam had fallen to pieces when Dean went to Hell—had gotten himself tangled up with Ruby, become obsessive and screwed-up and miserable and into more trouble than he could handle. So Dean had to take care of him.

But what if Dean hadn’t sold his soul and gone to Hell? What if he’d just… _died,_ beyond being brought back, like a normal human being, and Sam had grieved for him and moved on? He’d have had Bobby to help him through that, and then? Then maybe Sam could’ve finished school, found a nice woman and settled down, had the life he’d always been meant to have.

And now? Now, Sam had August. They talked all the time—they never seemed to run out of things to say. Dean had heard more things in this past week about Sam’s life without him, his time at Stanford and the time when Dean was in Hell, than he had ever suspected could possibly have happened. Way more than Sam had ever told him in all the years since Stanford—or ever would have told him.

August seemed thrilled whenever Sam confided in him, and never stopped asking questions. Sometimes he questioned what Sam said about things he and Dean had done together—remembered them differently, as Dean would have done. So he even had the benefit of experience, of Sam and Dean’s years together, in a weird sort of way.

In August, it was like Sam had Dean. But… better. And August had a better brother than Dean could ever be, too.

They didn’t need him. So if Sam’s plan worked…

“He’s not better.”

Dean jumped at the sound of August’s voice. He stood in the doorway to the back room of their current squat, an abandoned gas station. Dean had taken over what had been the employees’ tiny break room. 

Dean glared at him; August seemed totally impervious. “What?” he grunted discouragingly.

“He’s not better than you, and neither am I.”

Dean tamped down his flaring temper quickly. “Look,” he said. “I know you were… around for a lot of this stuff. But I don’t—”

“Wanna hear it? Wanna know? Care what I think? Yeah, Dean, I’ve heard you say those kinds of things all our lives.”

He sounded like Sam now. Dean especially hated it when he said _our lives._ He opened his mouth to retort, but August got there first.

“There are a few things you’re never gonna understand if you don’t change some things,” said August flatly. “And I know, because I’ve heard you start to figure it out, and you turn away every time. You wouldn’t hear any of this from Sam, even if he knew how to say it, and you wouldn’t hear it from Dad or Bobby either—”

“HEY,” said Dean, lighting into rage suddenly, “Don’t you call him—”

“He _is_ my Dad, Dean, even if he never knew it,” August said calmly. “Just like I’m your brother. And more than your brother. In a way, I _am_ you, because I know everything you know.”

Dean could think of no answer for that, and August continued. “So I’m thinking I can say things to you that no one else could, and I’m just enough apart from you to be able to see it when you can’t. So listen, Dean. Now, before you go down a path you’ll regret, and it’s too late. _Hear this for once in your goddamn life._ You’re OK.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean looked down at himself, in case he had some wound or bruise he hadn’t noticed. “Of course I’m OK.”

“No. I mean, what you are is OK. More than OK. You did all you could, Dean. You’re a good person. A good man, and it’s not your fault.”

“What’s not my fault?” Dean asked sharply.

“Any of it. It’s not your fault Sam got hooked on demon blood, or that he jumped in the cage with Lucifer. It’s not your fault Dad died—it was his choice to give his life for you, for his son that he loved. And Dean—what happened in Hell. I was there. I felt it all. It’s not your fault either. You held out for so long.”

Dean felt like he was choking. He felt so angry he could beat someone half to death, if he only knew who deserved it, and so sad he could drown in it, like he was falling down a well with no bottom, colder and colder the deeper he went. He couldn’t understand. He could barely hear the words. He tried to misdirect it.

“Why the hell do you guys need me, anyway? Sam couldn’t be happier with you; you guys don’t even _talk_ to me—”

“I was dying to know more about Sam. There were so many times when there was a question I wanted to ask him, something I wanted to know that I guess you didn’t care about, so I’m asking them all now. I wanted to see what made you feel the way you did about him. What makes him family no matter what. So yeah, Dean. I wanted to talk to him more than you, because you I know like I know myself… as much as I can be said to have a self. Not really sure about that yet, what I am apart from you, but yeah. At first I wanted to talk to Sam more. But then I _missed_ you, man. I wanted to talk to you so much, but you won’t even look at me.”

“Sorry,” Dean said quickly. “It’s just…”

“Weird,” August finished for him. “I know. Imagine how it is for me. It’s _all_ like that.”

They laughed a bit, quietly, and Dean was about to walk out of the room and offer to get them beers, but August would not be deterred.

“I love Sam,” he said. “But I love you just as much, Dean. And yeah, I know, you don’t use those words. But suck it up. It’s time you grew up a little, especially about that. About what you _think_ of yourself, man. I don’t get why you can’t see it. I’ve never gotten that.”

“See what?” Dean grunted uncomfortably.

“Just how… great you are. Everything that’s inside you. How you can feel a despair deeper than any human should even be able to, but you never, ever give up. How strong you are, how different from anyone else. There are things that you are, things you feel, that no one else is or does, and you think they’re nothing, that they’re just weird or girly or I dunno what, but they’re amazing, and awesome, and you should learn that. I miss feeling all that.”

Dean was stunned silent. He’d always been terrified that if anyone could see inside him, they’d despise him, maybe even kill him. But August kept talking.

“The warmth in your belly when you make Sam laugh really hard. The pride you feel at what a great shot he is, remembering how we snuck out to have him shoot cans for the first time. How women make you feel, that thrill when a girl sees you and looks away really quickly, but not before you see her eyes go wide and she smiles because she can’t believe someone that hot walked into _her_ bar, in _her_ town, and gave _her_ the eye.”

“I don’t think that,” Dean mumbled, even though he knew the look August meant.

“You mean you don’t know _she_ thinks that. But _I_ know it. And I know a lot of other things, too.” He gazed at Dean with a compassion Dean wasn’t sure he’d ever seen in another person’s face. He couldn’t bear to see it now—not for him. He turned away.

“I know you can’t really hear this,” August said gently. “I waited as long as I could, but if this plan doesn’t work, I might run out of time. And you have to know. Dean. Please. I’ve been here all along. I know everything there is to know about you, even the things you can’t bear to look at. And every mistake you’ve ever made, every bit of harm you’ve ever done, has been because you don’t know how to accept or care about yourself.”

“Jesus, I get another chick-flick brother? Shut the fuck up, I don’t need this crap—” The feeling that rose in Dean was oddly like panic.

“Not gonna shut up, Dean. I’m not the baby brother who does what you tell him, and I’m not the dad you obeyed unquestioningly. I’m you. And I swear to God, if you try to leave Sam and me if this plan works, or if you try to fucking kill yourself—” Here both of them winced, but August gulped and continued “or hunt alone and act like a reckless asshole until you get killed, which is the same thing and which I know you would do—if you do any of that, I am going to kick your ass. 

“And I’m not gonna do it with fists like Sam would. I’m gonna make sure you never get to eat pie or burgers. I’m gonna screw it up for you every time you try to pick up a girl. When you order shots at the bar, I’m gonna make sure the bartender makes you a Shirley Temple instead. Every time you try to watch a movie, mysteriously it will be Titanic instead of The Godfather or Porky’s 2. I’m gonna tell embarrassing stories about you when you’re posing as an FBI agent, make sure the water is always cold for your showers, trip you so you miss your shots—want me to keep going? I swear to you, I will make you wish you were the one who’d never been born.”

Dean couldn’t stop the tears that sprang to his eyes. Why, when he should be furious, was this making him feel like August really cared about him? “I wish I never had been,” he said suddenly, and for the first time since they’d met, August looked surprised. “I wish it had been you instead. Sam likes you. You get along better, you guys don’t fight. You might not have made all those stupid—”

“No, Dean,” said August. “I couldn’t have done it. So many things that you did, I would have made the same choice, even when it turned out to be a huge mistake. And other times, I would’ve done the wrong thing when you wouldn’t, and gotten you and Sam killed a long time ago. And in Hell? Dean, I would never have held out so long. I remember wishing you’d just give in.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. I just wanted you to stop suffering so much; I wanted to stop feeling it,” August said softly. “I didn’t understand… why it was so wrong, how much more it would destroy you. To be the one holding the knife.”

Dean couldn’t stop it. The pain and grief, remembered terror and horrible, burning guilt, an ocean of it, flooded him. He never thought about these things. He always refused, and he knew why. He feared it would kill him. 

August’s words were also a tremendous relief. No one, not even Sam, could ever understand what he’d been through. Not even he—or especially not he—could comprehend this vicious, snarled mass of feeling. He’d stopped trying years ago. If he’d ever even started. 

But August had been there.

“Yes,” August said softly, and clasped Dean’s shoulder in exactly the right way, hard enough to feel it, warm enough to comfort without threatening his manliness. “I was there. I was always with you. I tried to tell you it was all right. That you were all right, still, inside. That underneath all the torment and horror and failure and death was something the demons couldn’t touch, that the torturer’s blades could never reach.”

“You?” said Dean, wiping his nose.

August laughed softly and gripped Dean’s other shoulder, holding him at arm’s length. “No, dumbass,” he said with a strange, ineffable tenderness, giving him a little shake. “You.”

He turned and walked out of the tiny break room, leaving Dean alone with thoughts he’d refused to think his entire life.

~* * *~

Dean volunteered to be the one to gather some of the weird things they’d need for their plan. Water from a virgin spring, wild berries, honey from an “ancient tribe” of bees—Cas had popped up to help with that one, although Dean wasn’t sure he was actually trying to help. These were all harder than the gifts of silver, gold and jewels; the latter were the kinds of thefts Dean knew how to commit. He’d never spent so much time in nature before.

Sam was pleased when he brought the last of the gifts for the Sidhe back to their squat. Dean tried to ignore the thrill of pleasure he felt when Sam smiled at him and said, “Good job, Dean. These look great.” What did he care?

Sam fussed over the presentation of the gifts until Dean made one too many Martha Stewart jokes, then decided everything was good enough. “Now, Dean… uh, we all know what kind of vocabulary you like to use, but the courtly speech is really important. One wrong word, and you could seriously offend her. And trust me, you do not want to offend the Sidhe. Plus, I think we should all clean up good, put on suits or something.”

They had August check into a motel for them, since none of the people looking for Sam and Dean would recognize him. They’d been sticking to squats, but needed a place to clean up. August’s face lit up when he saw the hotel room. Dean realized that he’d been seeing these places in Dean’s mind for over 30 years, but had never seen one with his own eyes. His heart twisted strangely as he watched August inspect every corner of the dingy room.

August didn’t really understand grooming that well yet. He’d accumulated quite a bit of scruff, and Dean realized no one had ever shown him how to shave. Dean did so now, and gave him a few tips on spiffing himself up.

Dean tried not to think about why he was so nervous. The old growth oak forest Sam said they should use for the summoning spell was in West Virginia, so Dean made a lot of jokes about Deliverance, but he couldn’t deny that he was horribly anxious. He could lose August, and that might mean he lost a big chunk of himself. Or he could get to keep August, and then he’d have to face that neither August nor Sam really needed him, no matter what August said.

The drive and all Sam’s preparations for the summoning spell passed in a blur. Sam hadn’t paid much attention to Dean recently, but Dean soon became conscious that Sam was now glancing at him a lot. As they got out of the car in the forest, Sam drew him aside.

“Dean. You OK, man?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Sam stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment. “I heard some of what August said to you in the old gas station,” he said quietly.

“Damn it, Sam—”

“Don’t try to shut me up, Dean. I’ve let you do that too much. We don’t have time to talk about this now, but listen: it’s not true that I don’t need you, whether we have August or not.”

“Whatever, Sam, I—”

“No, not whatever. I’m not doing this not talking thing anymore, Dean. When this is over, we’re gonna talk. And you can make all the chick flick jokes you want, but you are gonna hear what I have to say, and you’re gonna say some things, too, if I have to beat them out of you.”

Dean smiled grimly. “I’d like to see—”

“Just hear this,” Sam interrupted sharply. “Yes, Dean. I wanted a different life. But I never wanted a different brother. You’re the brother I need.”

He turned and walked into the forest, the bag of spell supplies and fairy gifts slung over his shoulder.

The spell preparation went perfectly. August watched Sam eagerly and helped where he could. Sam added the final ingredients and said the binding words in Gaelic.

For a second Dean thought it hadn’t worked. Then he heard the music again. A flutter of panic twinged the scar in his belly button. Then golden light filled the forest glade and the Sidhe appeared.

Dean wasn’t one to let himself get too taken in by looks. He knew the prettiest girl at the bar was often not the one he really wanted to go home with; he looked for other things, too. But the Sidhe’s beauty overwhelmed his every sense, invaded his very pores. Somehow, she seemed at every moment to have every desirable trait Dean had ever noticed in any woman, every breathless, sexy laugh between the sheets, every graceful movement, everything he’d ever liked in the way a woman looked or spoke or acted. He couldn’t say whether she was blonde or brunette, what her shape was, or what color her eyes or skin were, only that it was exactly what he would want it to be.

August stood up abruptly when he saw her. Sam hissed at him and pulled him back down into the low, kneeling bow he’d said they all needed to adopt.

“Well,” she said in a voice like bells. “This is a pleasant surprise. Hello, Dean Winchester.”

“Uh, greetings, my lady,” Dean said awkwardly, wondering why she only spoke to him.

“You may rise.”

Dean stood up, careful to keep his head bowed as Sam had instructed. All the courtly speeches he’d tried to memorize had gone right out of his head. “Um, we bring you gifts, as a token of our… uh, great… admiration.” It wasn’t close to what he’d been supposed to say, but it seemed to work. He held out the carefully arranged tray of gifts.

She came forward and took it gracefully, inspecting each item, taking a berry between delicate fingers and popping it into her mouth.

“These are lavish gifts indeed. Are they your courtship gifts?”

Dean glanced at Sam, who was shaking his head frantically at him.

“Uh, no, lady. We come to… beg a boon.”

She looked at him coolly. Dean looked away, unable to bear the emotions her beauty stirred in him. “What would you ask of me?” she said.

Dean’s mind went blank. He couldn’t think of what he needed to ask for; all he could remember was her spell, and what had supposedly brought her into this world in the first place…

“Did you really come here for me?” he asked abruptly. “I mean… the first time, uh… I don’t really understand that.” Sam was signaling him desperately; he ignored it.

“Everyone knows who you are, Dean Winchester,” said the Sidhe gravely. “Should I defend myself, that I loved you from afar? But I saw that you do good work here on the mundane plane—important work. I had second thoughts about my plan, but your loveliness was such that I could not resist once I saw you.”

Dean cleared his throat, gripping his gun more tightly inside his jacket. “My, uh, loveliness aside… you can’t have me. Uh… fair lady,” he added belatedly. He was trying to remember Sam’s directive about ‘courtly speech’, but it definitely didn’t come naturally.

But she smiled. “Well, I saw that you were going to make it difficult. So I came up with an alternative that would have worked nearly as well. Perhaps better, especially since your angel friend did half of the work for me. Is that not why you have summoned me?”

Dean stared blankly at her. “Um—what?” He couldn’t think of a courtly way to say this.

She laughed, and the sound stroked Dean’s spine with velvet fingers. “To bring me my consort. He cannot survive here, surely.” She gestured to August.

Dean glanced at him. Poor kid; he was staring at her like a deer in the headlights, with a loopy grin on his face. He flushed when she smiled at him.

“The boon we ask is that you free him from the fairy spell, milady,” said Sam, in much better ‘courtly speech’ than Dean could manage. “If you take back only the power you expended on making him immortal, but leave the spell that helped him grow this body, will he not become mortal, aging as humans do?” 

Sam flinched as the fairy turned her attention to him. Dean saw him grip the iron knife he’d brought in case it came to a fight. “Sam Winchester,” she said caressingly. “Perhaps I should have considered you as consort as well. You are quite…” She paused, and Dean saw Sam shudder at the heated look she gave him. “Comely,” she finished breathily.

Sam gulped, and August, to Dean’s surprise, gave Sam a dirty look.

“Lady,” Dean said sharply, then softened his voice. “Uh, milady… we cannot… uh, serve you in that way. Any of us. If you will grant this boon, and make my brother mortal and safe for this world, I will owe you a favor.” His mouth went dry as he said the words. Sam had said this should be only a last resort, but Dean was never one for haggling.

She was silent a long time. All three brothers shifted nervously as she stared coolly at Dean, then shifted her gaze to August, who turned red again.

“Come forward, child,” she said softly to August. Dean would have laughed at the way he stumbled forward eagerly at a half-run, if he hadn’t been so terrified.

“Hey! You can’t…” Dean began, but Sam gave him a sharp “zip it” gesture and he desisted, as August knelt at the Sidhe’s feet.

“Let us see what the angel and I have made,” she said, and laid her hands gently on August’s golden hair. He shuddered violently at her touch, then went still.

The fairy’s delicately-arched eyebrows went up at whatever she perceived in August, then her expression melted into one of… pity?

“You are a lovely creature,” she said softly, and Dean stiffened angrily as she petted him like a dog. “But you are not meant for this world.”

She stood up. “Mortals, I bear you no ill will. I cannot grant your boon, much as I would like to be owed a favor from the famed Winchesters.” She smiled, and Dean’s knees wobbled.

“But I can help this one, in one way only. Otherwise, I fear he is doomed.”

“How can you help him?”

She gave Dean another cool stare; he kept forgetting the courtly speech. But she answered, “I can take him as my consort.”

Dean said, “No!” just as August said “Yes!”

Dean and August stared at each other. The fairy looked down at them with a small smile and stayed silent.

“Dean,” August said. “I’m sorry. But I can feel that what she’s saying is true. I’m not… mortal, and if you took that out of me? I would be… what I was before, but not inside your body, so I think I would just be…”

“Dust,” said the fairy. “You would return to dust.” She glanced at Sam briefly, then turned to Dean. “Mortals,” she said, and her voice rang with a sudden sternness. “I am accustomed to taking what I want. I will not extend this offer again. If I do not leave this glade with a new consort in tow, I will return to find one. And you will not defeat me a second time.”

Dean started to draw his gun, but August hastily stepped between him and the fairy and grabbed his arm quellingly. “Dean,” he said. “This is the only way. C’mon. You know it’s true.”

“She wanted me,” Dean said. “I could go with her instead—”

“Are you nuts? And leave Sam with me, a monster magnet, until I finally get killed, or he gets killed defending me? Dean,” August said softly, “listen. Sam still needs you, and even if he didn’t, you still have your life to live. I… don’t. I was never meant to have a life. Not on this plane. And now…” He glanced over his shoulder at the fairy. “She doesn’t seem so bad. Maybe I’ll like Faerie. And…” He grinned at Dean, a shit-eating grin he was used to seeing in the mirror. “This way, I won’t, you know… die a virgin.”

“Jesus, August, if it’s play you want—”

“Dean.” August stopped him. “I’m doing this. I… wish I’d had more time with you and Sam. But I don’t want some evil thing to use this power, and me, for evil things. This Sidhe isn’t evil. And I like that in a girl,” he said with a rakish smile that hurt Dean’s heart. “I’ve gotta take this offer.” He squeezed Dean’s shoulder roughly and strode over to Sam.

They exchanged words Dean couldn’t hear, and Sam embraced him. Dean couldn’t move as August then walked up to the Sidhe, made a formal bow, and took her hand.

The glade filled with light as he gave Dean one last, sad smile. “Remember, Dean,” he said. “You’re OK.”

Dean felt the blast of warmth and music, just as before, along with what felt like a lifetime’s memories of a voice trying to reach him in his dreams. When he came back to himself, he and Sam were alone in the silent glade.

~* * *~

Dean could never remember a silence so long, or so heavy, as the one that filled their car as they drove away, eager to leave West Virginia behind before they stopped for the night.

As they pulled up to a new squat, he said, “This is getting to be a habit for us.”

“Yeah. It’s like there are Grow-Your-Own-Brother kits you could buy from a late-night infomercial. Like Sea Monkeys or something.”

“Or Magic Rocks.”

“Or Chia Pets.”

“Chia Brother.”

They laughed, a little hysterically, but Sam stopped abruptly when Dean wiped away tears. “It’s not fuckin’ funny, man,” Dean mumbled.

Sam sighed. “No. Look, Dean, I’m gonna miss him.” They both got out of the car, and as they slammed the door, Sam looked over the top of the car at him. “But I’m really, really glad I’ve still got you.” He walked into the abandoned house without looking back.

As he settled into the “bedroom” of their squat, Dean felt the ache of loss like a blow to his gut, to the empty space behind his navel. He automatically began searching for the nearest bottle of booze as he thought he had let down his brother, again. He couldn’t keep anyone, couldn’t save them, couldn’t…

He stopped. He’d found a bottle of Jack in his duffle bag and opened it, but he put the cap back on now, without drinking. He was doing what August had asked him not to do, what Sam, in so many words and in different ways over the years, had asked him not to do.

So he just… stopped.

Hear this for once in your goddamn life. You’re OK.

When August’s words floated back to him, as clearly as if they were spoken in his ear, his first reflex was to reject them violently, to batter himself with all the ways he wasn’t OK. But then he wondered: could Sam and August be right? Could it be that he… really did enough, and was enough?

More importantly, what if he just… pretended he was, even if he didn’t believe it? What if he decided it was OK that August was a fairy consort? It didn’t sound like such a bad thing, really. And he chose it. It was better than being stuck in Dean’s belly button, after all.

He remembered Sam asking him to let him make his own choice, when he had chosen to try to defeat Lucifer by becoming his vessel. He had thought, for a long time, that this was the worst choice he could ever have made. But then, the world didn’t end, did it? Sam had been rescued from hell, and Cas had saved him from his memories of it, and whatever terrible things had happened between then and now, he had his brother back at his side, whole and himself.

He’d had to make a brutal choice when it came to consigning Adam to being left in hell, but he knew he would make it again if he had to. So he could beat himself senseless with that choice too, but what would that accomplish? What would any of his pain and self-loathing accomplish in the end? A lot of drinking, maybe, and a lot of sleepless nights. A lot of irritation from Sam, and maybe a worsening of Sam’s pain and guilt, too. Because, Dean recalled, whatever he felt, his whole life long, Sam was never one to leave him alone in feeling it.

Though the pain in his heart swelled, he smiled as he tucked the bottle back among his socks. He wasn’t alone. He still had Sam, and he ought to make sure Sam still had him, so maybe it was time to try something different.

Maybe Dean would try just being OK.

~The End~

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a post of extended author's notes on this fic. If you'd like to read it, it's here: http://septembers-coda.livejournal.com/21913.html


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